


peaches in syracuse

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Happy, Humor, M/M, grocery store antics, history buff bellamy, nerds, poet murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9406592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: In which Murphy is a poet and Bellamy writes historical fiction, and they criticize each other's work online. What happens when they bump into each other in real life, internet aliases and mutual hatred left at home?





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was so much fun to write and i really hope u like it <3
> 
> i listened to "stay" by astronaut husband on repeat when writing this and i think it's very cute and fits the mood of the story very well, just saying
> 
> anyway please enjoy i thoroughly had a hoot writing this gay trash

 

The faded plastic keys click underneath darting fingertips as he unleashes hell upon his enemy. Stabbing words rain down like knives over his opponent's tired battlefields and forgotten empires. It’s a bloodless cruelty, with all but one of his victims already dead, but damn does it invigorate.

(He takes a sip of his morning orange juice.)

He showers his nemesis’ life work in molten lava, his fury liquefied and red-hot, poured into the indentations of an unforgiving language. He reels a hand back for the final, fatal blow, and...

(Comment published.)

Murphy settles back in his swivel chair, leather cold against his bare legs crossed in the seat of it. He blinks eagerly at his computer screen, plastic yellow cup of citrus-y goodness clutched between cramped, overworked hands.

Sweet, sweet vengeance.

He considers staying like that, blue eyes super-glued to electron-lit phosphors until his opponent inevitably emotionally recovers, crawling from whatever nest of demons and Axe-cologne drowned frat brother history buffs they usually reside in to strike back. Although, wouldn’t it be so much more satisfying to miss their retaliation, to make them wait?

The sadist in Murphy says yes. The New Comment notification in his eyes says otherwise.

He hovers over the ‘view comment’ option for a little crumb of what feels like forever, before the carpal tunnel survivor attached to his wrist takes over and clicks it for him.

_“augustus-ad14: @badnessreign121 i know you’re a huge fan and all, but don’t you have something better to do than comment on all of my posts? like take a writing class? lol. thanks for the read though”_

By the first word, he’s already seething. Murphy shoves his chair out from under him, sending it flying into the already busted drywall with a crunch. “Son of a bitch!” He paces, before making his way to the chest of drawers at his beside, ripping a chestnut drawer from its slot and plucking out the first shirt and pair of pants he gets his shaking hands on.

“Motherfucker. Telling me to take a writing class?” he mutters, punctuating with a scoff for good measure as he pulls a worn black tee over his head, simultaneously calming the raging bedhead he had acquired from a rare night of actual rest.

 _“Blood in Syracuse,”_ he growls, shoving two limbs into one pant leg. “Sounds like a fucking-” he grunts, ripping one leg out and jamming it into the other side with unnecessary force. “-Shitty-” he grumbles, shimmying into the pair of too-tight jeans. “-News headline.”

Not his best insult, but his brain is too busy swimming in blood-thirst to really dwell on it.

Murphy storms over to the dinosaur of a PC and pokes the power button with a bent, accusatory finger, before pivoting on a heel and stomping into the kitchenette to eat his frustrations away, already brainstorming his next attack.

Retribution must be paid.

He tears the cabinet open, fumbling blindly for some sort of sustenance as he scrolls through new e-mails on his phone, clicking them only to be rid of the notification. He comes up with only air.

“What the-”

Peering inside, the only inhabitants found are two more sleeves of saltines, and he sighs, dejected and mildly annoyed that food still does not magically appear in his possession even after he rubs a lot vases and wishes on them. He reaches for a package anyway, before considering the fact that he’s eaten nothing but saltines for at least a day or two now, and his entire body is crying out for it to stop.

And in a moment of fleeting motivation to do the life thing and trying adulting, he slips into a pair of (maybe?) washed socks and toes on two wilting converses, soles peeling off and laces practically begging for death.

Self care is ignoring your problems until they go away. That’s his motto.

Unless it’s potential starvation, in which case he finds himself stumbling down the apartment building stairs and out into direct sunlight for the first time in what feels like forever, bus stop much too far from the front door for him to feel guilty about complaining to himself over it as he trudges there.

As he walks, though, he remembers the good things about being outside. He remembers how the words come so much more easily in the embrace of a breeze, the gentle sounds of small city happenings, the blushing colors of blooming peach flowers in the neighbor’s front yard.

The crazy old man at the bus-stop.

“Ah, John! Long time no see, son!”

Murphy can’t help but chuckle, finding a place next to the weird old coot on the rickety, gum-decorated bench. “Been busy.”

“Aren’t we all busy, all of us, everywhere, all of the time? There’s no such thing as idleness in life!” Thelonious crows, leaning alarmingly far back on the bench. Murphy smirks encouragingly as he rambles on, nudging his little blue notebook out of his pocket to inconspicuously scribble down anything worth remembering of the man’s word vomit.

It’s always fun for a few seconds, but by the time the bus finally arrives, Murphy feels like bashing the dude’s head in. He won’t, but hell does he imagine it.

He remembers suddenly why he also doesn’t go out anymore.

Murphy stops at the bus door, looking over his shoulder. “Not getting on?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.

“Nope! This bench suits me just fine. Just enjoying the sun and the sights in the City of Light!” he beams, calmly crossing his hands in his lap as he watches another unsuspecting idiot approach the stop.

The pale kid sighs. “Martinsburg, and you’re at a dilapidated bus stop on a backstreet, but okay.”

He drops his money in the fare-box and nods a half-assed greeting to the underwhelmed-looking driver, wandering to his preferred seat in the very back, already mentally exhausted by the outing.

Should have just eaten the saltines.

He curls up around his phone, legs stretching into the seat next to him as he opens up the site where all of his works are published. He sends his thanks to a kind commenter, glancing over the poem in question. It’s an old one, and definitely not his favorite, but he finds himself perking up a bit at the compliment.

Until he clicks on his most recent piece.

_“augustus-ad14: @badnessreign121 are you just copying and pasting eulogies? i know my works are “unoriginal” but you’ve really lowered the bar here. just because “bad” is in your username doesn’t mean it has to be in your writing. lol. have a nice day”_

The bus lurches to a stop just in time to shake Murphy out of his state of frozen anger. “Oh, fuck you,” he grouses, and a woman with a toddler squirming in her lap across the aisle shoots him a nasty look. _Fuck you too,_ he thinks, but decides against getting thrown off of his only form of transportation.

He starts typing, thumbs working against the small, dimmed screen at lightning speed. Blood will be let.

_“@augustus-ad14 i will, thx. u couldnt imagine how comforting it is going about my day knowing i dont take pride in writing shitty historical fiction. take care xoxo.”_

And... _comment._

The woman to his right rises from her seat and begins to maneuver through the aisle to the door, prompting Murphy to glance up from his battle just in time to see the brick buildings and colorful awnings lining the street, and he hurries in turn to the front, slipping through the doors just before a fresh load of passengers board.

The little grocery shop invites him with creaking and painfully slow automatic doors, and fluorescent lights wrap around him, activating his evolution from pale to positively ghastly.

He stands, hands empty and feet lost, at the front doors, realizing that he has no clue what he wants. So he makes his way towards the least populated area of the store, the produce section. It welcomes him with peace and quiet. He peruses the fruits, always keen on a trustworthy Red Delicious for breakfast, but willing to take an adventure into something more exotic should he be feeling daring.

And cereal, there’s always cereal.

But he thinks back to the blossoms in the peach trees down his broken little street and finds himself drifting towards the stand housing the sweet little things, well-aware that his particularly weak taste-buds will beg for mercy when he’s through with one.

He spots the perfect one, just pink enough to be a peach and golden enough to be edible, and reaches out for it--

“Oh, ‘scuse me,” a low voice mumbles politely, and the hand that had knocked against his draws itself back. Murphy hesitantly lifts his eyes, and is welcomed by the face of a God.

The man stands at an intimidating height and build, but has a kind, freckled face and soft chestnut eyes that Murphy is lost in the very moment he steps through them. The shorter brunet realizes he’s gone on too long without speaking, so he forces his tongue to form a quiet, “Uh... it’s- no problem.”

The handsome stranger gives him a quick smile, eyes darting across Murphy’s face, seemingly taking it in for a moment, and that’s enough to do the pale boy in.

Murphy is the type to consider proposing when someone merely says thank you when he holds the door open for them, and thus, his heart grows three sizes.

He stares after the man until he steps back from the stand and heads off down the wine aisle, and Murphy clears his throat, realizing a lump has not only formed there, but built a small home and settled down with a spouse and kids. Therefore, it stays, and he’s not sure he’ll ever speak again. Not that it really matters. The words are in his hands.

Which reminds him...

Murphy plucks the little blue notebook from his pants pocket, resting it against the edge of the stand as he jots down notes about the interaction, about the man. He writes of brown eyes and golden peaches, of tan skin and brushing hands. And when he’s finished, he reaches for the fruit he’d come to gather up in the first place, and finds that perfect one is gone.

The beautiful bastard snatched it up anyways.

Murphy laughs to himself. His heart feels full for the first time in an eternity.

And it feels full when he’s checking out, absently shoving his entire wallet towards the cashier before he realizes that no, no that’s wrong.

And it feels full when he’s walking down the street, colors flying before his glossed-over eyes and sun melting into his very skin.

And it feels full when he reaches the bus stop and takes a seat, looking down into his grocery bag, where a lone, bruised little peach resides. And he laughs, because that’s okay. Because he’s not hungry anymore anyway.

  
***

  
Bellamy crosses from the bedroom to the kitchen, peering into the pantry for something to munch on before he bangs out a new chapter, and sighs with resignation when his options prove to be underwhelming: half a jar of peanut butter and an old turnip from Monty’s garden, which he isn’t sure would be good together.

But then he remembers that his fruit bowl is overflowing for once, and among the surplus of apples and oranges he finds a perfect peach, and his mouth is already watering before he nears the counter.

So he leaps over the back of the couch, snack in clutch and laptop on the coffee table, and opens it up, rough draft for his next chapter already calling his name- when _they_ crash the party. No- absolutely _piss_  all over the parade.

_“badnessreigns121: @augustus-ad14 i will, thx. u couldnt imagine how comforting it is going about my day knowing i dont take pride in writing shitty historical fiction. take care xoxo.”_

Bellamy fumes. His small bites into the peach become vicious chomps, until he realizes the poor, battered little fruit is bleeding its juice over his knuckles and down his forearm in rivulets, so he snatches up a (used?) napkin from the table and swipes it away.

The mouse darts, seemingly on its own, to his nemesis’ profile, where he’s informed that the asscanoe in question has posted a new work titled “Idle.” He debates clicking it, but what kind of opponent would he be if he didn’t mercilessly trash every single one of his enemy’s publications?

 _“I’ve been wasting away,_  
_while the sun meets the day,_  
_and the peach tree flowers._

 _And I’ve been losing hours,_  
_while he’s been out there,_  
_hazel eyes and raven hair._

 _And I’ve been growing cold,_  
_while he’s been growing old,_  
_besieging hearts in grocery stores._

 _And I’ve been waging other wars,_  
_while he’s been busy_  
_not knowing me._

 _Won’t you catch me_  
_on the next breeze,_  
_and won’t you be idle with me?”_

Bellamy scoffs at the immaturity and overall mediocrity of the piece, pointer racing to the comments section with the intention to draw blood, when he freezes. Peach trees? _Grocery stores?_

He glances up into a mirror across the sitting room, boring holes into his own reflection. _Hazel eyes and raven hair._

No, he shakes himself out of it. No, it must be a coincidence. Just a silly coincidence, that’s all. Sure, he fits the muse’s description and sure he went to the grocery store and met an interesting stranger over the peach stand and sure, sure, sure, _sure._

But it can’t be.

Badnessreigns121 wallows in filth and eats babies all day, they don’t have time for grocery shopping. No, no. They wouldn’t be a cute stranger buying produce in downtown Martinsburg. No, Badnessreigns121 is spawned from Hell and Hell is where they shall remain.

Badnessreigns121 would not brush their pale, smooth hand against his as they reach for the same perfect peach, would not look into his eyes with his own striking blues for a century too long. No, Badnessreigns121 eats shit for breakfast and spits it out into his comments section for supper.

But as Bellamy takes another bite of his now-bittersweet late night snack, and thinks about the strange, entrancing stranger who was certainly not Badnessreigns121-- he thinks he could probably use a few more peaches anyhow.

 

***

 

The swivel chair turns underneath him as he shoves all of his weight into it, spinning himself towards his computer as it croaks to life, and he reluctantly checks his page for comments. He cringes slightly at the few likes, feeling a little vulnerable as his most recent poem is considerably less dark and cold than his other works.

It’s... hopeful. And John Murphy doesn’t hope.

He scrolls hesitantly down to the comments, preparing his body for whatever blow augustus-ad14 will land for this work, and when he comes up empty, he’s taken aback.

He can breathe for a moment, but he’s... disappointed.

And he’s not sure why.

Murphy spins around in his seat with a shrug, however, crossing his legs in the chair as he gathers his dinner into his lap and stares out of the window, bringing a cracker to his lips. The night sky teases him with glimmering stars and the unreachable promise of adventure spilling out of them, but all he can do is sit in this gray, gray room and eat his saltines. He’s accepted that this is his life, that the only happiness he’ll have rests in fighting a stranger online and posting poems that mean little to nothing to him anymore.

But when he glances over at the crumpled grocery bag on the end of his unmade bed, and sees the sweet rouge of the peach that hides inside its plastic embrace- he thinks that maybe, just maybe, not everything is so colorless.

He thinks that maybe he just needs a few more peaches.

 

***

 

He’s tapping trembling fingers against the paint-stripped bus stop bench when the fourth wave of regret and frustration hits, just as Thelonious’ third song on the miniature bongos begins to fill the air. This is stupid. He’s being stupid. He should just turn around and go home. This is ridiculous.

The old man leans into his line of vision, arms crossed over the colorful little drums as he peers into Murphy’s face. “Who’s the lucky soul who’s drawn you out of your dark cavern twice in one week, John?”

Murphy pales. He could say, “A hot guy at a grocery store who I have a 1% chance of ever seeing again,” or, on the other hand, he could end his life on the spot. Either would have the same effect.

“My stomach,” he answers. The lunatic seems unconvinced by this response, but Murphy doesn’t have to await further interrogation as the bus pulls to a wailing stop in front of them, and the doors swing open with a puff of air and a startling screech.

He gets only a foot in just as the man behind him calls out, “The body never hungers that is satiated by love!” Murphy bristles as the driver quirks up an eyebrow, always seeming to interrupt the strangest of discourse. Little does she know that’s every one of the old guy’s sentences.

“That’s literally not true, but okay,” Murphy sighs, listening half-heartedly as the drumming upon bongos fades into silence and the bus pulls away towards the town. He finds his seat furthest from the front and glances out of the unwashed window as he settles, with perhaps fewer nerves beating against his ribs like prison bars. He knows everything Thelonious says is complete nonsense, but pulls out the little blue notebook anyway.

 

***

 

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should go home.

Bellamy shifts against the shelf by his hip and clinks two bottle of wine together, startling him into focusing. His life has really sunk to stalking around a grocery store’s produce section in search of a person who may either be a cute boy or a shit-eating demon in disguise as a cute boy.

Either way, lurking about the wine aisle to get a clear view of the peach stand but still be out of sight in case he decides to run took way too much strategic thinking to not be creepy, and he should definitely not be doing this.

But he suddenly can’t think at all, when a familiar vanilla-skinned brunet approaches the stand and hovers near it, looking disappointed and a little angry. Bellamy’s feet stay glued to the linoleum. The boy pulls out a notebook, cover blue and worn, pages covered in ink as he flips to the last blank one and scribbles something into it, hand moving furiously with his eyebrows knit tightly together. Bellamy is enraptured by his very presence, wants desperately to know what he’s writing, wants to see those milky cheeks glow rouge as their hands brush again. But his heart pounds and he sweats and he knows he can’t just walk out of the shadows of the wine aisle without looking like a super-freak, so he turns his back, tucks his tail and takes off.

Because of course he does.

And after he gets through the rest of an actual grocery list, basket full and eyes dull, without looking up from his task to land eyes on the captivating stranger once, he goes back to the stand.

Because he needs peaches.

And when he gets there, he fills a bag with the fuzzy fruits and starts to head for the checkout line, when he steps on something that is certainly not floor. Bellamy glances down to find none other than the little blue notebook under his foot.

He looks around, a little frantic, for Cute Boy, and when he finds no sight of him, he dares to flick it open, checking over his shoulder twice like he’s committing a felony. And maybe he is.

_“peach trees blooming” “is there no such thing as idleness?” “raven hair, chestnut eyes” “a brushing of hands” “the ghost of him was still there”_

Bellamy’s stomach drops.

The ghost of him has shit its pants.

 

***

 

He finds his chair the minute he steps through the door, all of the new-found light gone from him as he rests his elbows on the glass top and waits for the old computer to flicker to life so he can pour his disappointment and resentment into a new piece, but when he reaches into his pocket for the little blue notebook, his fingers curl around only fabric.

“Where’s my...?”

_The grocery store._

He shoves at the desk and launches the swivel chair towards the bedroom door, stumbling through it and snatching his wallet off of the counter as he goes, dazed and feeling near a melting-point. He throws open the apartment door and trips down the narrow stairs, wanders blankly out of the complex and onto the sidewalk, floats his way to the bus stop, and is only shaken alive by the sight of an empty bench.

The unsound bongo-playing elderly isn’t at his usual post, his pockets are free of any little blue notebook, he’s left the apartment three times just this week now, and when he checks his phone--

No comments from augustus-ad14.

Everything is wrong.

And when the bus halts he does not nod at the driver, and he sits in the front. He stares at the dust-blanketed floor instead of out of the fogged-over window. His eyes are glossy when the bus stops, and he steps off feeling nauseous.

But the grocery store’s little yellow awning still drips with last week’s rain, and the peach stand still holds it’s meager little place in the produce section, and--

He’s there.

He’s there and he’s sitting at the base of the stand, arms curled tightly around a little blue notebook.

Murphy’s heart stutters back to life.

“Oh, hi. You dropped this,” he reminds, as if that isn’t the reason they’re both there, as he clambers into standing at his full height, dark eyes trained on the smaller of the two.

Two hours ago. He dropped it two hours ago. The stranger stayed there at the peach stand for two hours. For _him._  Murphy hopes the roof to this little shop is detachable, because he might just float up and crash right through it.

“I read some of this, I hope you don’t mind. I’m guessing you’re a writer?”

The brunet tries to force out some words, and sort of wonders if he really deserves the esteemed title of “writer”, but chooses to at least nod, whether he’s sure about it or not, because one can only ponder so long on a yes or no question before the other person grows uncomfortable.

A look of realization crosses the darker man’s face as he nods thoughtfully in turn, and then he parts his lips to ground out, “You’re probably a good one, based on this,” he gentles the last word, extending the notebook, and Murphy lifts an unsteady arm to take it. White lightning strikes when their fingers touch.

 _“You’re probably a good one,”_ echoes over and over in Murphy’s mind, even as Handsome Stranger turns on his heel to make for the door. Murphy gapes after him. All that waiting, just to leave right away?

“I- you- thank you!” he calls after him, mentally berating himself for sounding so pathetic, and the raven-haired man slows, twisting back around just enough to throw, “Don’t thank me. A good deed when _badness reigns_ , right?” over his shoulder, before disappearing past the sliding doors.

Murphy’s jaw hits the floor. Probably busts the linoleum. He’ll have to pay for that later.

  
***

 

“Delete! Delete!” he cries, shaking the computer in a white-knuckled grip. The poem must be erased from the earth. He must dance in its ashes as soon as possible. It must die.

_“Work deleted.”_

He falls back in the chair, angry tears stinging his eyes. Not only did the object of his affections read his most vulnerable piece, but the object of his affections was fucking _augustus-ad14._

That grimy, talentless bitch.

That beautiful, charming, grimy talentless bitch.

Fuck.

He clicks on the man’s profile, head swimming, legs shaking as anxiety and regret buzzes through him like a sick, backwards energy drink.

_New works: (1)_

_“Lay Siege to the Heart”_

Murphy blinks.

_Summary: What happens when the war is in the heart?_

Murphy scoffs.

He skims over it, before falling into the story headfirst. It revolves around a Spartan and Athenian who clash on the battlefield, before tearing off each other’s helmets. In this action, they see each other for the first time, and look into each other’s eyes, and decide to spare one another. Years later they meet again, recognize each other and fall in love.

Murphy’s mouth goes dry. His heart beats out of his chest, falls onto the desk in front of him. Fucks up his keyboard, probably. He’ll have to pay for that.

His eyes drift to the comments section, his weak, traitorous little fingers take over.

_“@augustus-ad14 this was garbage. epilogue?”_

 

***

 

He keeps his eyes on the floor, bumps into a shelf and a buggy and apologizes to both. This is the stupidest thing he has ever done, and the majority of his life has just been one continuous stupid thing, so that’s saying a lot.

Murphy wrings his hands as the fresh smell of produce hits him, along with the now-familiar blast of cold air coming from the refrigerated/misted/soggy items. Maybe he didn’t get it, maybe he didn’t want to show at all, maybe he doesn’t want to see him or hear from him ever again. Maybe he just wants to tear down Murphy's shitty poetry from the safety of his Axe-drowned frat nest full of demon history buffs.

Maybe he’s...

He’s _there._

The pale brunet steps to the peach stand and the freckled man on jellied legs. His tongue swirls around in his own mouth, knocking awkwardly against his teeth as he tries to form a coherent greeting. Alas, he cannot. He’s proud of himself for making the effort, though.

But he doesn’t have to, because Augustus-ad14 extends a bent triangle of an arm and offers, “Your badness.”

Murphy blushes peach-pink from head to toe. He surprises even himself when he hooks an arm through the other man’s with a sly little grin. “Emperor,” he returns, and the man positively beams, stepping forward with his nemesis in tow, out of the little grocery store and away from the little peach stand and into the sun. Murphy glances up at him with hopeful eyes when they reach the street, sun pouring over the both of them like honey, everything warm and glimmering gold and moving in slow-motion. “What now?”

Augustus-ad14 smiles back, a dark curl wilting into the view of crinkled, chestnut eyes. “We write ourselves an epilogue, shall we?”

 

 

 

_(fin.)_

**Author's Note:**

> eh?? ehh??? what did we think how do we feel 
> 
> fun things:  
> bellamy's username is augustus for, you know, roman emperor augustus, and the lil ad14 part is A.D. 14 for when he died. idk. and murphy's username is from the last line of shakespeare sonnet 121 which i think fits him very well.  
> also martinsburg is a little town in west virginia near where the real mount weather is which i thought was a cute touch.
> 
> again, so much fun to write. thanks as always for checkin in and kudos and commenting. love u! <3


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